


secondary objective

by ictus



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 17:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Agent 37's primary objective is to apprehend the Red Hood while drawing minimum attention from civilians. His secondary is to do so without using his Hypnos. Dick’s going to have to play this one old school, relying on some of his more charming qualities to get Todd alone before he can request extraction.





	secondary objective

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an AU where Jason was never Robin.

The Red Hood is a small-time player compared to what Spyral typically deals with. He’s been making waves all up the Eastern Seaboard, methodically dismantling criminal empires with a strategic acumen that even Bruce would admire. He’s also left a trail of bodies in his wake, favouring mass shootouts or well-placed explosives to eliminate the competition and effectively seize control of half a dozen cities across the East Coast. For whatever reason, he’s steered clear of both Gotham and Blüdhaven, and Dick’s never had a reason to track him down and turn him in. That is, until he decides to take his operations global, and ends up pinging Interpol’s radar.

When Helena hands him his assignment, the blatant distaste on her face tells him everything he needs to know about her thoughts on being Interpol’s lapdog. But Spyral is a business after all, and all that tech costs a pretty penny. She had explained to him when he first started that sometimes being an international superspy is about saving the world, and sometimes it really just comes down to paying the rent—and while there may be a little overlap, it seems that in _this_ instance it’s almost entirely the latter.

Which is how Dick finds himself casing a bar on the outskirts of Kiev, documenting all possible exits. The bar itself is barely a step up from a dive and, according to his intel, the Red Hood has spent the better part of the last two hours inside.

Dick enters the building and immediately spots his mark drinking alone at the bar. He takes a moment to run over the facts. _Name: Todd, Jason Peter; Age: 22; Threat Level: High_. Usually an assignment like this would be cut and dry; he’d saunter right up to Todd, activate his Hypnos, and lead Todd back to Spyral HQ with little more than a suggestion. Todd would be turned over to the relevant authorities before he could even become cognizant of the situation, and Dick would be back home in time for the evening news.

But Helena, either wanting to make this mission worthy of Spyral’s undertaking or simply out of a misplaced sense of frustration, has assigned him a secondary objective. His primary, of course, is to bring Todd in while drawing minimum attention from civilians. His secondary, is to do so without using his Hypnos. Trust Helena to turn apprehending a terrorist into a training exercise. Dick’s going to have to play this one old school, relying on some of his more charming attributes to get Todd alone before he can request extraction. 

Dick hangs back while Todd orders another drink—a whiskey, the same brand that Bruce favours. Apparently when you’re an international crime lord, you can afford the top shelf labels.

Dick waits until Todd’s been served before approaching the bar. “You sound like you’re a long way from home,” he says. As far as lines go it’s not his best, but it earns him a sidelong glance from Todd, his gaze curious and appraising all at once.

He pauses, the rim of his tumbler halfway to his lips before replying, “could say the same for you. Where are you from?”

“Jersey,” Dick replies, and it’s close enough that it might as well be true. “You?”

Todd takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savours the taste. Todd’s more handsome than the mission dossier led him to believe, and Dick immediately dismisses the thought as being irrelevant to the case. “Not far from there myself. You wanna pull up a pew?” he asks, gesturing to the vacant bar stool next to him.

Dick takes a seat and orders a beer, something light that allows him to keep up appearances without actually getting him drunk. Dick catches Todd staring at him, a sidelong gaze through his long lashes, making Dick more than a little self-conscious, suddenly feeling naked without the Hypnos.

“Jason,” he says, extending a hand.

“Sam,” Dick replies, the lie falling easily from his lips. Todd’s hand is warm and calloused, weathered with scars, and Dick holds it for a beat too long before hastily releasing it.

“Cheers,” Todd says, raising his tumbler. They toast, and Todd keeps his eyes locked on Dick’s the entire time, the intensity of his gaze reminding Dick that this is a dangerous man, a man who could kill— _has_ killed—anyone who he thinks poses a threat to his ever-expanding empire with a brutality that’s truly disturbing, even in Dick’s line of work.

He resists the urge to follow the long line of Todd’s throat as he swallows, dropping his eyes to his beer before asking, “so what brings you to Kiev?”

“Business,” he replies easily, and Dick supposes that’s one way of putting it. Systematically demolishing the major Ukrainian amphetamine labs and subsequently crippling the Eastern European drug trade probably does constitute business in the Red Hood’s book. “I’m in real estate,” he adds.

“Oh,” Dick says, genuinely taken aback; whatever cover he thought Todd was going to come up with, it certainly wasn’t that.

“Yeah, I have a private buyer interested in a chateau up north, I’m here in person to try and butter up the owners and convince them to drop the asking price.” The lie is so mundane it could almost be plausible, especially with Todd in casual civvies rather than the kevlar armour he usually favours. Todd swivels on his stool, leaning back casually with his elbows propped up on the bar, his body language projecting confidence. “And yourself?”

“Visiting family,” Dick says, hoping the banal smile he plasters on his face is enough to suggest a certain fondness for them without prompting too many further questions.

“Your first time in here?”

“Yeah.”

Todd says something in Ukrainian which Dick doesn’t catch, his knowledge of Slavic languages being elementary at best. “Sorry, I’m afraid my grandmother never taught me Ukrainian.”

“I said, ‘welcome to Kiev, it’s a pleasure to meet you, do you know where the train station is?’ That’s about all the Ukrainian I know,” he says with a laugh, and Dick’s surprised when the smile he returns is genuine.

They get to talking, and Dick’s taken aback by how easily the conversation flows. He knew Todd was intelligent, sure, but he’s also _cultured_ , which is a surprise. They discuss everything from global politics to modern literature, and it begins to occur to Dick that this is someone who’s travelled extensively, who’s experienced a lot despite his youth—although those details were missing from his mission dossier. The only background Dick has on his youth is that Todd was born in Baltimore but it’s suspected he grew up elsewhere on the East Coast, and that his parents are deceased. There’s no record of him attending any school in the US, and he’s lived completely off the grid until he resurfaced as the Red Hood several years ago. Todd tells him about a gap year in Germany and travelling through South Africa with a sense of nostalgia that almost seems genuine if the crinkle at the corners of his eyes are anything to go by, and Dick wonders if there’s any truth underpinning his stories, or if they’re just elaborate fictions that Todd is fabricating as he goes.

Dick finds himself wondering when was the last time he did something like this, something as simple and as human as having a chat over a drink? Since joining Spyral, Dick’s been more or less confined to his quarters with nothing but the tiny TV for company, his increasingly-sporadic calls to Bruce being his only tether to his former life.

Dick tries not to lose sight of his objective. _This is just a job_ , he reminds himself. It’s Dick who’s laying the trap, and he can’t afford to get tangled in his own web of deceit simply because he’s nostalgic for a time in his life when having a drink with someone was an act of camaraderie, rather than a tool of emotional manipulation. 

“You know you should catch up, I don’t wanna leave you behind.” Todd’s voice jerks him out of his reverie. He motions to Dick’s half-empty beer and finishes the rest of his own drink. The bar has gotten busier since Dick arrived, and Todd has to lean in close to murmur in his ear so as to make himself heard over the din. 

“I’ve never been a big drinker,” he replies with a small chuckle, but he obliges and takes another pull of his beer. Todd’s eyes track the movement, lingering on Dick’s mouth as he licks his lips, and yeah, Dick’s pretty sure he has his number. “But hey, don’t let me hold you back,” he says, signalling the bartender and ordering Todd another whiskey.

Todd swivels around in his stool to accept the drink and faces the bar once again, close enough now that their bodies are touching. Dick can feel the heat radiating off him, and he leans into it unconsciously; he had forgetten how good it feels to experience this sort of incidental closeness with another person, and is forced to remind himself for the umpteenth time that Todd is a just mark and nothing more.

Dick is beginning to realise that his window of opportunity is rapidly approaching and will soon be closed, but it’s going to be a challenge to slip the sedative into Todd’s drink with their bodies pressed together, hip to shoulder. Dick had mastered the art of sleight-of-hand by age ten—one of the perks of being a circus kid—but he knows there’s no way he’s going to be to pull this off with Todd so close to him.

Luckily, Todd himself gives Dick the perfect opportunity when, on the tail-end of a particular dramatic gesticulation, he manages to knock an empty glass off the bar. In the precious seconds when Todd is stooping down to retrieve it, Dick drops the tiny capsule he’s been concealing in his palm into Todd’s drink where it dissolves instantly. Dick can hardly believe his luck; surely Todd is smart enough to be suspicious of Dick, but he seems to have almost completely dropped his guard.

“Oops, sorry about that,” he says with small laugh, “I guess I’m a bit drunker than I thought.” He places the glass back on the bar and resumes his position next to Dick.

“Don’t sweat it, I’m a bit of clutz myself,” Dick replies with a smile, taking another long pull of his drink, hoping it will encourage Todd to mirror his movements and do the same. Todd does, taking another sip, and Dick’s relieved his interference with Todd’s drink has gone unnoticed.

“So,” Todd says, dropping his voice so Dick has to lean even closer to hear him, “where are you staying? Not with your family, I hope?”

Dick feels his face heat in a way that has little to do with the alcohol, swearing to himself that he used to be better at this sort of thing. “No, I travel out to see them tomorrow. For tonight I’m staying at a hotel a few blocks from here.”

“Nice,” Todd says with a small smirk, “I was hoping you’d say that.” He throws back the rest of his drink, apparently past the point of savouring it, and Dick nearly sighs in relief. Getting Todd to take the sedative was always going to be half the battle; it’s all downhill from here.

Todd returns his now-empty glass to the bar, leaning in close to whisper, “be right back.” He slides off the stool and saunters off in the direction of the bathrooms, and Dick lets out a shaky sigh. Now that the sedative’s in his system, Dick has approximately fifteen minutes to get Todd away from the civilians before he passes out; he’s pretty sure that hauling off Todd’s unconscious body would be a direct violation of his primary objective. There’s an exit on the western side of the bar that leads out to an alley, all Dick has to do is lure Todd out there and the mission is as good as done.

Dick downs the rest of his beer and fiddles with the label on the bottle for lack of anything better to do. He nearly jumps when he feels a hand on the small of his back as Todd appears suddenly at his side, practically draping his body over Dick’s.

“Y’know I was gonna offer to buy you another drink, but what’s say we just quit the posturing and get out of here?” Todd’s voice is low in his ear, gone smooth with the liquor, and when Dick’s breath hitches it’s not entirely for show.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless, “let’s go.” He leads Todd towards the western exit and for the second time tonight, Dick can’t believe his luck; Todd’s playing right into his hands, and Dick has him exactly where he wants him.

“Hold up,” Todd says from behind him, stopping him with a hand on his arm. Dick’s heart stutters, thinking he’s been caught, but when he turns he sees that Todd’s pulling him towards the open door of a storage room, grinning wickedly.

Dick allows himself to be pulled into the small room that’s packed with cases of beer and liquor, his own smirk firmly in place. “I thought you would have wanted to go back to the hotel?” he asks, his voice light and teasing. Privately, Dick’s relieved Todd pulled him in here; it saves him questions about his fictional hotel room, and he should be able to stall Todd in here for the few minutes it will take for the sedative to kick in.

“Couldn’t wait,” he replies simply, pushing Dick against the door and closing the distance between them. Todd kisses him, mouth slick with liquor, and Dick moans into it, kissing him back like he’s starved for it. Todd’s hands are everywhere, caressing his face, then his chest, finally getting underneath his shirt, and the skin-on-skin contact is enough to make him moan again. He can’t remember the last time he felt this way, months of solitude leaving him touch-starved and desperate. Even as he’s leaning into the touch he reminds himself that these are the hands of a killer; hands that have crafted bombs, pulled triggers and snapped necks, hands that have ended countless lives.

But Dick can’t remember the last time he received any sort of physical affection, the last time he was the object of someone’s desires. And even though he knows that in a few short minutes, Todd will be unconscious and he’ll be on his way back to Spyral, he can’t help but give into it, to enjoy every moment and pray for it all to last just a little bit longer.

Dick breaks the kiss and starts mouthing at the stubble at Todd’s jaw, before moving onto the column of his neck. “Fuck, _Sam,_ ” Todd moans on an exhalation, and Dick hates how much he wishes it was his own name on Todd’s lips, “god, I want your mouth on me.”

Dick immediately tenses, his heart hammering in his chest. He pulls back to study Todd’s face, notes that his pupils are blown which could be an indicator of the sedative starting to take effect, but it could just as easily be arousal. Todd’s likely to drop any second now, and while Dick did intend to pick him up, he never intended for it to get this far. It seems he’s already crossed whatever invisible line he’d drawn, and the feeling of Todd’s hands on him is so intoxicating that he just can’t _not_.

“Yeah,” he mumbles into Todd’s mouth, drawing him in for another kiss, “yeah I can do that.” He reverses their positions so Todd’s the one against the door and starts to work on unbuckling his belt. Todd lets out a low groan when Dick finally gets a hand around his erection, letting his head fall back against the door, watching Dick through hooded eyes.

As Dick falls to his knees, some distant part of his brain reminds him that his Hypnos are still operational behind his eyes, that Helena can see everything he sees, and he won’t be able to surreptitiously omit this from his mission report. He flushes at the realisation, can already picture her smug, knowing smirk, but it will all be worth it just so long as he can get his mouth on Todd’s—

“ _Oh_ ,” Todd gasps from somewhere above him. Todd’s cock his hard and leaking when Dick takes it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head before drawing back to lick along the underside. Todd’s hands are convulsing uselessly at his sides, rhythmically clenching and unclenching as though Todd wants nothing more than to bury them in Dick’s hair. He gives into the urge when Dick swallows him all the way down, grabbing a fistful of Dick’s hair with one hand while the other scrambles for purchase on the smooth surface of the door.

“Fuck, so good,” Todd murmurs, his hips stuttering into the heat of Dick’s mouth, and Dick moans in response. He begins to work up a steady rhythm using his hand and his mouth in tandem, while his other hand palms his own clothed erection, desperate for any kind of friction. Todd keeps up a steady litany of curses interspersed with praise, now caressing Dick’s face with an unexpected tenderness and looking down at Dick through his lashes with a reverence that makes something twist in Dick’s gut.

In spite of his better judgement, Dick begins to wonder what he and Jason—no, _Todd_ —could have been to each other in another universe, what things could have been like if their moral compasses had aligned. And Dick knows he’s only romanticising; the side-effect of one too many nights alone, almost completely cut off from contact with anyone outside of Spyral. He knows that Todd is a murderer, a terrorist—someone who will spend the rest of his life behind bars if Dick has any say in the matter. But for a moment he allows himself to get lost in the fantasy, to succumb to his own falsely-constructed narrative; that Jason’s just a handsome stranger he met in a bar, someone who wants and desires him.

Jason must be getting close now, his bitten-off moans getting louder and louder. His hips have found their own rhythm and Dick drops his hand to his thigh, lets Jason cup the back of his head and thrust shallowly into his mouth. “God your mouth is— _fuck_ —so perfect,” Jason pants. “Shit, I’m gonna—”

Dick moans around his cock, wraps his hand around the base and strokes Jason through his orgasm. Dick pulls back a little so he can swallow, giving Jason a few more squeezes as he shudders through the aftershocks. When Dick pulls off completely his lips are shiny and swollen, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his own aching cock and how desperate he is to be touched.

Jason is bonelessly sagging against the door, his chest rising and falling in time with his laboured breathing, his lips bitten and parted. Dick rises to his feet and licks into Jason’s open mouth while Jason fixes his pants. Jason gets a thigh between Dick’s legs and Dick grinds helplessly against it, the friction not nearly enough.

“What do you want?” Jason’s voice is low and breathy in his ear, and Dick’s mind stutters to a halt at the request. He knows what he _should_ want; a series of events the culminates in the Red Hood being detained in one of Spyral’s holding cells.

But when he opens his mouth to reply, his lips simply form the words, “touch me.” Dick flushes at how desperate he sounds, and Jason’s answering smirk is predatory enough to remind Dick just who he’s dealing with. Dick pushes down that thought and allows himself to be manoeuvred backwards until the backs of his thighs hit a bench affixed to the adjoining wall. Dick falls back onto it pulling Jason on top of him.

Some distant part of his mind tells him it’s unwise to let Jason have this sort of leverage over him, that Jason is a lethal weapon extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat including half a dozen styles of martial arts. But those thoughts fade and dissolve the second Jason’s gets his hands back on him, kissing his neck while his hands roam over his chest and down to his hips. Dick surrenders all thoughts of spies and criminals, his whole world reduced to Jason’s lips and hands.

Dick gasps when Jason finally starts to rub Dick’s erection through his jeans, his hips rising involuntarily off the bench. Jason chuckles darkly in response. “Don’t you think it’s funny,” he murmurs, almost conversationally.

“Think what’s funny?” Dick asks, dizzy with the sensation of Jason touching him.

Jason lays another tender kiss on Dick’s throat before whispering in his ear, “that the sedative hasn’t kicked in yet?”

Dick freezes, his heart pounding in his ears. Before he can move, Todd’s got a knife pressed against his throat at exactly the same spot he was kissing just moments prior.

Todd laughs coldly at Dick’s wide-eyed shock. “Come on now, you didn’t really think you could pull one over on me, right?”

Dick feels the colour drain out of his face. Of course Todd had known, has been playing him from the start. It was no coincidence that Todd knocked that glass off the bar, giving Dick the perfect opportunity to spike his drink. And later, Todd had gone to the bathroom… Dick hazily recalled the mission dossier. Todd was reported to have had toxicology training at some point before he took on the mantle of the Red Hood. The advantage of the sedative Dick had administered was that it was colourless and tasteless, essentially undetectable. But there were several compounds that could act as competitive antagonists, effectively neutralising the drug. If Todd had so much as suspected he’d been drugged, he could have administered the antitoxin and would have been in the clear.

Todd’s eyes darken as he observes the comprehension on Dick’s face. “Who do you work for?” he asks evenly. Todd’s tone is suddenly business-like, all traces of arousal and intoxication gone from his voice.

Dick rapidly realises that there are few outcomes to this scenario in which Dick escapes with his life, but he needs a moment to be sure before considering his last resort. “So,” he drawls, blinking slowly, “does this mean that you’re _not_ going to touch me?”

It earns him a snarl, the pressure of the blade at his throat increasing. “Don’t get cute with me,” Todd says through gritted teeth.

Dick’s sigh is only somewhat put-upon. “You know, I was really hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this.”

Todd’s brow furrows in confusion for a moment before Dick activates his Hypnos and his face slackens, expression gone blank. _You want to remove the knife from my throat. You want to let me up. You want to come with me._

Todd is pliant and suggestible under the influence of the Hypnos, and if Dick’s being completely honest with himself, the accompanying feelings of regret and disappointment have very little to do with his failure to satisfy his secondary objective.

 

: : :

 

Todd escapes, of course. Spyral has him in holding for all of 48 hours before he’s due to be handed over to Interpol. Somehow, the heavily-armoured holding van and everyone in it disappears into thin air during transit, somewhere between Birmingham and London.

Three months later, the Red Hood appears on a CCTV feed outside a warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow. When Dick approaches Helena to ask if he can take the case, he pretends not to see her knowing smirk.


End file.
